


figured out the joy is not in your arms

by fiveyaaas



Series: under mistletoe [6]
Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, BOTH are just implied, F/M, Lies, Masturbation, Secret Identity, Secret Identity Fail, Vaginal Fingering, because...... he is bad, five tries to learn violin and that’s the most tragic part of this fic, i refuse to believe he’s NOT bad at it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:34:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28050222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiveyaaas/pseuds/fiveyaaas
Summary: It was getting hard to convince herself, by this point.
Relationships: Number Five | The Boy/Vanya Hargreeves
Series: under mistletoe [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2036878
Comments: 2
Kudos: 44
Collections: Harcest Ficmas 2020





	figured out the joy is not in your arms

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xxbunnykissesxx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxbunnykissesxx/gifts).



It was getting hard to convince herself, by this point. 

Over and over and over again, she’d tell herself that she didn’t need Five to last her first year away from home. There was no reason to put out the peanut butter and marshmallow sandwich, no reason to leave the lights on. Not when she’d moved out. 

It felt wrong to do, both because of the tradition she’d hoped would somehow someday lure him home and the fact that they’d once promised one another that they’d live together when they got away. Then again, he’d broken the promise first. 

She learned to live without him at home, and she’d never even lived with him at all _outside_ of home. Truly, there was no reason why she should feel guilty.

Plus, there was no reason to feel so _sad,_ either. Five would likely say she was acting like a baby if he heard the line of her thoughts when she walked by happy couples on her way to work. She taught music lessons at a little church, one she didn’t know much about other than that they were willing to offer a room to teach students in, so long as she cleaned up after herself when she was done.

Vanya had many students, most of them relatively young. She’d get the occasional student who was trying to relive the nostalgia of having played the violin when they were younger, wanting to actually put in a lot of effort when they tried to reteach themselves and hiring a private instructor for it. 

Most of the time, people chose her specifically because she had some of the best pricing of any private instructor. When she’d very first moved out, many things dealing with money had confused her. Being the ward of a billionaire had meant she had absolutely no perspective on how the world _actually_ worked, especially in concerns of money. She’d estimated a fair price, realizing the widening eyes of the mother of her student had been because it was so _fair_ and not because it was so steep after she’d taken another ten off per hour.

Now, Vanya knew most private instructors charged at least thirty an hour. So, five dollars per hour was a steal. 

She was thankful, though, for her work. It kept her busy, unfocused on the fact that she was completely, entirely alone. It wasn’t like she had a bunch of friends from high school to live with. Part of her had held out hope that Five would home at any moment until the very day she’d moved out.

There had been no point, trying to change her plan. If she had, she would have never gotten the courage at all to leave. She’d hold out hope year after year after year, and then she’d eventually have to accept that he wouldn’t ever come home. And then, she’d have spent all the time she could have made something out of her life waiting for a person that clearly didn’t even want to be near her enough to tell her he was even _alive._

So, she told herself that she didn’t want him there anyways, that he’d complicate the, at the very least, _consistent_ life she had for herself. It was mundane, far from extraordinary, but she knew what would happen on any given day and it made it so much easier that way. 

Extraordinary would be fantastic, but she wasn’t _meant_ to achieve that. The most special thing about her was that she managed to land in a house of abnormally gifted people and be completely and entirely _normal._

No, realistic was good. 

And it was realistic to wake up everyday alone, still huddled to one side of the bed, holding out hope that somebody would be there beside her when she awoke but knowing it wouldn’t ever happen. 

* * *

Vanya had found that she could find joy in her ordinary life, full of ordinary people, working an ordinary job. She could live with the life she had and be perfectly _content_ with it.

That was, until she met _him._

Quentin was a student in his 30s, but he explained he had _never_ played before. It wasn’t that he _wasn’t_ joining for nostalgia, he explained. It was just that it wasn’t his own. When asked to further elaborate, he explained that he’d once loved a woman who loved her violin, and that he hoped to feel connected to her through music as well.

She took his word for it, wondering if he still loved the woman, not sure why she even did. 

The day she’d started helping him with pizzicato, having decided to only teach him to play once he could read music, he asked her, “Do you get a lot of students?”

She shrugged, “Some. I have pretty competitive prices.”

“I noticed that. Is it a charity thing?” He gestured vaguely around the church. 

“Honestly, I feel sometimes like people taking my lessons is the true charity,” she muttered quietly. Somehow, he heard.

Frowning sharply, he told her, “Vanya, you’re a wonderful teacher, don’t sell yourself short. I had never even known that there was such a thing as alto clef, which is probably awful considering I used to play piano.” 

Vanya stifled a smile, remembering years ago when Five had tried to learn piano. He’d been _awful,_ and she’d never seen Five looked so stunned as when he realized he wasn’t perfect at everything after all. “Well, alto clef doesn’t entirely help you when you’re playing violin, to be fair.” 

He laughed, “I’ll be honest and say I didn’t quite know treble either.”

“Does it give you _treble?”_

“Oh, God, Vanya that’s _bad,”_ Quentin told her, setting down the violin to look up at her and let her fully see his disappointment, though she could see his lips twitching as he tried to hold back a smile. 

“Okay, what about this-”

“Already afraid.”

“Why did Mozart kill his chickens?”

“Oh, lord, _why?”_

“Because they kept yelling ‘Bach! Bach! Bach!’”

His eyes sparkled with amusement, quipping, “There are torture methods less painful than what you just said, you know.”

“I should become an assassin then. Torture people with my _sharp_ wit.”

“Assassins specifically kill, actually.”

She raised her brow, having him go back into position. When his neck craned in a way that she knew would cause him pain later, she gently moved it into the correct position, realizing that she’d touched him only as his pale eyes met hers. Her hand was still on his stubbled cheek, and she cleared her throat, “Like that.” 

His jaw locked, “What do you mean?”

“Your position, keep it like that.” She moved away, feeling her heart flutter. 

“Oh, okay, yeah.” He sounded like he’d just run a mile, and she wondered briefly if she’d upset him by not asking before she touched him. She should have thought about that-

“Are you okay?”

“What?” Vanya asked, crossing her arms over her chest. 

“Your face… It’s gotten all _pinched.”_

“My face isn’t pinched,” Vanya snapped. As his eyes widened in amusement, she amended, “It might’ve been a _little_ pinched. Sorry, I’m still kind of new to this job.”

“You’re doing well,” Quentin promised. “I enjoy the way you teach. However, I’m now a little worried about the way I’m holding the violin.” He slumped forward, and Vanya was confused as to why he’d do that when he’d just been in a perfect position. “This is correct, right?” 

“No, what you’d been doing before was correct.”

“How was that again? Like _this?”_ He somehow managed to look even worse this time around. 

Frowning at him, she touched him again, this time with a quick glance confirming it was okay, straightening his back and showing him the proper placement of his chin. “Oh, right, thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Don’t move your arm again this time.”

He nodded. “Where do I put my fingers?”

She blushed, “Just right… _there.”_

“And that’ll yield the best results?”

“I mean, yeah, it’s where they’re supposed to go.” 

When she moved away, he asked, “And I’m doing this completely right?”

“Yes, you’re doing perfectly.”

* * *

He became her most frequent client, coming every three days to her lessons, always ranting about his colleagues beforehand. They’d moved their specific lessons outside of the church and into her apartment, mainly because she couldn’t use the church every single day. 

Sometimes, he’d bring dinner with him, claiming she was too thin and it distracted his playing. Vanya, not really seeing the purpose in chiding him, ate all the meals he brought. 

Part of her wondered if he didn’t see her as his teacher, but she didn’t know how to ask. He was about a decade older than her, and it would likely be inappropriate for a multitude of reasons to even ask. Maybe he thought of her as a daughter-like presence, and he was just trying to help her out for that reason. If that were the case, it would make all of the thoughts she had about him _highly_ inappropriate. 

“Are you married?” Vanya asked him one day, searching around for two forks for them. He’d brought her dinner again, and the practice was quickly moving from ‘sometimes’ to ‘usually.’ 

“Why do you ask?”

“You don’t wear a ring,” Vanya pointed out. “I was curious.”

“I’m not married,” Quentin clarified. “I didn’t ever have a chance to be married, honestly.”

“What do you mean?” 

She settled down beside him, blushing as she took sight of the stubble on his cheek, imagined the roughness against her thighs-

“I was alone for a while,” he told her vaguely. “Until I started working at my current job, I hadn’t seen anybody for years, it seemed like.”

Vanya’s knees fell on either side of her, and she positioned the plate on her lap, “Was it, like, social anxiety or something?” 

“No, more circumstantial.” There were a few beats of silence while he chewed his food. “Do you ever want to get married?”

She choked on her food, not realizing he’d meant in _general_ and not to _him_ until he was patting at her back, trying to get her to stop suffocating on chicken. 

“You okay?” Quentin asked, flicking a brow up as he sat back down. She felt like she might pass out from embarrassment. 

“Yes, I’m fine,” she coughed. 

“Good.”

“I’m not really… uh, I’m single right now. So, I haven’t given it much thought. When I was younger, I used to tell my best friend that I was going to force him to marry me, but I don’t think that precisely counts as a proposal.” 

He chuckled, taking a sip of coffee, “No, probably not.”

“Do you ever want to? You mentioned the violinist.”

“Oh, I’d marry her in a heartbeat, but I don’t know if the feeling is reciprocated.” 

Vanya frowned, “Why wouldn’t it be?” This was distinctly _not_ how they should probably be speaking to one another as a student and an instructor, but she also knew that he likely didn’t see her that way. It occurred to her that they were _friends,_ and the thought made her inexplicably happy. 

He shrugged, “She sees me as a friend, I imagine. Now, I was wondering if we could work on scorestudy today.”

“I’m starting to think you just want the excuse to study theory. Are you afraid of the violin?”

“No, but I am _horrible_ at it. At least with theory it’s just facts that I can memorize. Plus, there’s math to it. If you squint.”

“Do you like math?” 

He nodded, “It’s relaxing for me.”

“Is that what your job is? In math?” 

“No, I’m an a-” He narrowed his eyes, like he’d realized something. “An actuary.” 

“Don’t actuaries do a lot of math?”

“Not the _good_ kind,” he snorted, like this was supposed to mean something. 

“Is that why you dislike it? The math?”

“No, my colleagues are just the _worst.”_

“You know, you complain about them frequently, but I don’t even really know why they’re so annoying.”

“Just genuinely awful people.”

“Because they work at insurance companies?”

“Yeah, the nature of their job… is _not great.”_

Vanya wondered if she should point out that he also chose to have that job, but she also didn’t think he’d hesitate to turn his ranting onto her instead. 

So, she grabbed a score and started talking through it with him.

* * *

It was becoming more and more distracting, to be near him. She found that most of the time she was supposed to be teaching him she was watching him instead. A lot of times, he’d ask, interrupting her thoughts, “Was that okay?” Then, she’d be forced to deal with the knowledge that she’d been paying attention to his jawline and not his actual playing, and she’d nod distractedly.

If he noticed, he didn’t comment on it or seem to mind. 

One day, after their lesson had ended, Quentin asked her if she’d like to go see the symphony with him. 

When she’d stared at him in confusion, he hurriedly explained, “You mentioned that it would help me to see and hear professionals, so I got some tickets. I figured you could come with me since you suggested it.” 

“Yeah,” she breathed. “I’ll come with you.” 

* * *

Vanya wondered if maybe the guy was just the slightest bit lonely. Any time they were together, he’d light up instantly, telling her about his day. It was a little pathetic, but she imagined it was what it would feel like for her husband to come home to her and tell her about his day. She knew, realistically, that Quentin didn’t feel that way about her, but she couldn’t precisely help it. 

Technically, she could help what she did after he left her place, but that was between her and the buzzing toy in her underwear drawer. 

At one point, she noticed they stopped even talking about music, and that her bills were still paid. He always gave her extra, claiming it was because he used up so much of her time, but when she realized that the checks he wrote her once a week were always enough to pay for a month of rent, utilities, and groceries. Vanya wondered if it was just that he had a surplus of money, and he’d gone to Vanya in hopes of spending it. With the three weeks of extra money she had, she started depositing it into the bank, imagining that if she accumulated enough she could move into a nicer neighborhood and stop teaching at the church, which restricted her ability to give lessons. 

She eventually asked him if they were friends, wanting to know the answer. He’d smiled and said, “Of course.” 

After that, it got a _little_ easier to work with him, knowing how exactly he felt for her. They started to regularly frequent concerts, operas, ballets, and musicals together (the musicals thing was because he claimed he had a fondness for the theatre, but she got the idea that it was actually just because she enjoyed them), and she’d grown comfortable laying her head on his shoulder during the performances. Sometimes, she’d even fall asleep, waking up in embarrassment when he’d shake her awake at the end, but he never commented on it further than, ‘you should sleep more, V.’ 

Eventually, Vanya accepted that she wasn’t his teacher anymore, even though she kept getting checks. She never commented on it, figuring if he had enough money to do that and wanted to, she shouldn’t really argue.

* * *

At one point after Vanya had accepted Quentin wasn’t really learning anything, they started watching a few shows together in her living room. When she’d made peanut butter and marshmallow sandwiches for snacks the first, she didn’t try to analyze it, just smiling when he said that they were his favorite. There was a Discovery Channel series that they both very much enjoyed that aired on Thursdays, so it became customary for her to put on a pot of coffee and make a stack of peanut butter and marshmallow sandwiches those days. Usually, he’d bring something else for dinner as well, telling her it would be unfair if he didn’t (even though he essentially paid all of her bills and groceries.) 

One day, it hit her that not only did she have feelings of lust for him, but she wanted to be with him, romantically. Which, truly, made no sense, considering that he _clearly_ did not see her that way. 

But she had to know. 

* * *

When she kissed him before he left her apartment, on a cold night that she hoped she wouldn’t spend alone, he made a startled noise before relaxing into it. His arms wrapped around her, moving on top of her, caging her in between the couch and himself. They’d been friends for over a year now, but she got the idea that he probably felt the same way as her for a while. 

He didn’t question it when she started unbuttoning his shirt or tugging at his belt. And she whimpered when he started addressing her in turn. 

Vanya trembled underneath Quentin, watching him take her in. As his hands slipped between her thighs, she noticed his tattoo. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading💕💕💕


End file.
